


you were there

by Zharena



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zharena/pseuds/Zharena
Summary: The first time he meets Keith is in the woods.He doesn’t mean it in the literal sense - they’ve shared classes since middle school. Spoken, but fought, more often than not. But it’s not until the day tears off into the woods, desperate for respite from his parents’ explosive arguments, that he truly meets him.In which James stumbles upon Keith's safe space, and a relationship grows from there.
Relationships: James Griffin/Keith (Voltron)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 47





	you were there

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [Velocity: A Jaith Zine](https://twitter.com/jaithzine). Had a lot of fun writing this one, especially when it came to visiting the site which inspired this piece. I won't link to it directly as it would give away a little too much personal info on my part, but I can say that it was pretty cool to see some relatively modern ruins without having to actually trespass anywhere. ;)

The first time he meets Keith is in the woods.

He doesn’t mean it in the literal sense - they’ve shared classes since middle school. Spoken, but fought, more often than not. But it’s not until the day tears off into the woods, desperate for respite from his parents’ explosive arguments, that he truly meets him.

The paths swerve this way and that; against his better judgment, he doesn’t pay attention to the trail markers. All he knows is that he wants to be away, _away_ , and it pushes him forward. 

Until his chest tightens, and he stops. Pats his pockets for his phone, but they’re empty. Glances around for a trail marker, listens for the faint whir of cars, but the tree trunks all seem to blur together, faceless and unmoving as they observe his calamity. They don’t judge him for running away, for being lost, but he knows he can’t trust them, knows that they’ll trap him here if he stays too long.

Legs aching from his earlier run, he trudges forward until he reaches a fork. A thin tree stands at the convergence, marked with a pair of scarlet dots angled in the direction of one of the paths. The other path isn’t marked; it branches out to the left, thinner, but still well-worn.

_I need to stay on the trail_ , he thinks, but he can’t help but wonder what’s down the other way. Still, he’s already lost - as long as he keeps the path in sight and doesn’t stray too far, he can’t get too lost, can he? James glances at the tree to his right, then at the trail. Wonders how many other amateur explorers have made their way to this crossing, how many were left with the same dilemma he has, and closes his eyes. _Just a few steps_ , he tells himself, and then he can turn back.

He starts on the path, feeling the incline sharpen beneath his feet as he careens downward, the forest’s will pumping his legs until his toes dangle over the edge of a grassy plateau. For a moment, he swears that everything’s frozen, that this is his last moment alive and some sadistic god is letting him cherish it before they snap the string and send him to death. But then a doe pokes out from the brush below, eyes black and beady as she cocks her head to the side. He’s safe. 

James exhales and begins to back up, trying to find his footing on the knotted, bumpy hill. It’s steep, and each movement seems to bring the tendons in his feet closer to snapping. He counts ten steps, maybe twelve, before he reaches another landing and the surface finally balances out. 

The doe is still there, her eyes closed as she buries her nose in the grass. Yet, as if sensing James, she raises her head slowly. A warmth rushes over him, almost as if he’s being welcomed by her. To what, he has no idea. 

She tears off in a flash. James stares at the empty field, at the blades of grass twisting in the wind and ivory wildflowers gleaming with sunlight. And then he turns around, turns to see what the doe was trying to show him. 

A structure juts out from the forest floor - six stairs glued together by misshapen stones and ancient cement, their cavities filled with green amalgams of moss and weeds. James wonders how he could have missed it on his way down. Could it have been magic? The kind that whisks you away to unknown lands in the blink of an eye? He gulps.

_Still…_

He’s tired, and they look like a good place to rest. 

Wiping sweat off his brow, he plops down, his legs feeling like jelly. He tries to piece together the path he took, the colors on the trees - but they’re all jumbled up, and he can’t remember what goes where. James gulps, feeling saliva scratch his throat. It’s hot, he has no water, no directions. He’s going to die here, he thinks, resting his head against the wall and closing his eyes, heat rising in his cheeks.

He doesn’t fall asleep, but time seems to pass in a void, anyway. He’s faintly aware of a cool breeze on his neck, a mosquito landing on his knee, a plant at his foot caving with the sky’s movements. Of the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky, of the shuffling of feet in the grass behind, closing in on him as the seconds tick on. 

He jumps out of his skin when he hears his voice.

“James?”

_No._ He can’t have run into one of his classmates and especially not _him_ in the middle of the woods. But sure enough, he sees those white boots marred with scuffs, his faded black shirt and fingerless gloves, that _nest of hair_ , when he opens his eyes. His stomach sinks. 

Keith frowns when he doesn’t answer, brows wrinkled with concern. James steels himself, not wanting to be so vulnerable in front of him, but Keith has already seen through his facade, cutting him right to his core.

“What are you doing here?”

It’s an innocent enough question, but there’s a hint of wavering accusation in his voice; one not of anger or frustration, but the sneaking suspicion that something’s _off_.

“I forgot my phone,” he blurts desperately, hoping it’ll get the message across.

Keith nods, his face softening as he slings his backpack around and pulls out a bottle of water. He settles next to James, offering it to him.

“You look like you need this.” 

He sighs with relief. Even though it’s only been a few hours, it feels like an eternity has passed since he last drank anything. But then he remembers who’s giving it to him, remembers the time Keith punched him in the face for a deep-cutting insult, and leaves his hand hovering over the plastic.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why are you helping me?”

Keith bites his lip, stops and thinks. _For once_ , James adds. 

“Because you’re upset, and I don’t abandon people when they are.”

* * *

Shortly after, Keith gives him directions. Scarlet trail to yellow trail. James repeats it to himself in reverse after he makes it out, imbuing the way into his memory.

They don’t say a word to each other at school. His parents explode again two days later, and then once more three days after that. This time, James is prepared: he tucks his phone, a couple of bottles of water, and one of his homework assignments into a small backpack. He wants, needs to be away from them, and he can’t stop thinking about those stairs.

He spends a few hours on them, poring over his world history textbook. The text is so tiny that he finds himself rereading the same lines over and over, building a headache before long. Slamming the textbook shut, he groans and takes a large gulp of water. He leans back against the steps, thinks of the sheer magnitude of human history, wonders who the steps had been for, what significance they’d held in their tiny blink of time. Wonders for a minute or two about how much the conflict between his parents matters in the long run before he’s whisked away by a familiar voice.

“Remembered your phone this time?” Keith teases from the top of the hill. James jumps up, trying to hide his surprise at running into him again. 

He digs his phone out and waves it in the air as Keith makes his descent, clutching a sketchbook. Keith smirks as he passes him, eyeing a spot on the opposite side of the steps as he sets his things down and presses his back to the wall, bending his legs in front of him. Summoning a few pencils from his pocket, he places the object in his lap and begins scribbling.

James tries to return to his work, but his mind is focused on everything else - how quiet it is here compared to the chaos of his house, on how he doesn’t want to go back. On what Keith’s drawing, the sound of graphite scraping against paper. On how Keith doesn’t seem to mind him being there, despite how badly they’ve gotten along in the past.

He tries to peek over at what Keith’s drawing, but the other boy pulls the sketchbook close to his body before he can see.

* * *

The arguments turn more vicious every day. His father bellows so loud it shakes the house, and his mother finds ways to drag up hours-dead arguments. Neither of them are healthy for each other but they refuse to admit it, preferring to push the blame onto the other in hushed conversations with James. He never knows if it’s going to be a quiet evening, if he’s going to be able to study, if he has to hide himself away in his room to muffle the shaking. 

He misses the stability of how it used to be.

He returns to the forest again and again, Keith sometimes taking the seat across from James, James sometimes taking the seat next to Keith. Sometimes they talk about small things - how their days went, the ugly tie their science teacher had on, the rumors floating around school. And sometimes, they sit there in silence, settling into the comfortable silence of friends who have seemingly known each other since the beginning of time. 

But reality catches up before long. After all, it’s not like the star student to go disappearing into the forest for hours at a time, and he’s certain Keith overhears his friends asking him why he hasn’t been attending any clubs recently, why he rarely hangs out outside of class anymore. He can’t bring himself to tell them, needs to keep protecting his facade for as long as he can. Keith doesn’t say anything, not at first, but James still sees the furrowing brow of worry crawl across his face.

It takes a few more visits before Keith finally pries. 

The afternoon starts just as it often does: his parents scream, James takes off. They sit on the steps, barely acknowledging each other with more than a nod. He takes a swig of his water and pores over work to be done; Keith whips out his sketchbook and a handful of pencils. 

A plump-bellied robin pokes at the grass beneath their feet, searching for food. Keith scratches the curves of the bird into paper, looking up periodically to get a better look at its ruffled, bronze feathers. James revels in how isolated he is from everything else, from _them_. Wonders if the person who once stood on these steps cherished that disconnect from the rest of society, too. 

Keith finishes his rough sketch and drops the pencil on the steps with a wooden clack. He keeps the book open for a while, staring at something in the distance. When he finally speaks, the question guts the silence between them like a knife into flesh.

“Why do you keep coming here?” There’s no malice in his voice, no anger. Just concern. 

James says nothing for a while, then leans back, all of his weight resting on his wrists. 

“It’s peaceful,” he musters. It’s all he can really say now, but he hopes it gets the message across. Keith frowns, knows there’s more to it than that, but lets his words sit heavy on his tongue. It scares James, makes him wonder if he’s said too much, if he’s about to lose his only safe haven from the rest of the world. “Do you want me to stop coming?”

Keith’s eyes widen. The robin flies away.

“No,” he shakes his head. “Of course not. You just seem-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” _Not yet._

“Okay,” he says. 

“What about you?”

“Hm?”

“Why do you keep coming here?”

He shrugs. “To draw.”

“But there are a million other places you could do that.”

“I used to come here with my dad a lot, before...” he pauses, tapping a few fingers against the stone.

James knows exactly what he’s referring to. _Before the fire._ He remembers the headline clearly: _BRAVE FIREFIGHTER LOSES LIFE IN TWO-STORY BLAZE._ It hits him then: this place is sacred to Keith, and he’s let him in this whole time.

Keith picks up the drawing pad, knuckles white as he hands it to James.

“Do you want to see it?”

* * *

His parents finally announce their divorce a few weeks later. It’s funny - it’s something he’s seen coming for a long time now, something he’s wanted to happen just so that he doesn’t have to _dread_ it anymore, but hearing it become official sends his insides twisting. It’s peaceful at home, but he opens the drawer to his desk, sees the sketch of the robin, and runs off. 

He reaches the stairway like he did all those weeks ago out of breath and practically rolling down the hill. Keith is already mid-sketch when he arrives, and the truth spills from his mouth like a bloody nose. By the time he’s finished, the forest squeezes him, the humidity from a recent rainstorm lingering in the trees, and he needs to _move._

Keith obliges, leading him down a well-loved shortcut to another forest walk with muddy, pillowy locking their shoes in a vice grip as they trek. Eventually, they hit a portion of the path where someone has covered the slushy loam with wooden planks. James hops across each of these, arms spread wide as they shift beneath his feet. Keith sprints over them without a second thought, stopping only to help James make the leap from the final panel to drier land. 

Sunlight bounces off Keith’s red shirt as he ventures ahead, looking tiny beneath the canopy of trees. The path they’re on is straight, venturing off into seemingly nothing. Around them, he can hear the faint sound of a deep bass note being repeated, answering his own heartbeats. Keith turns to him, but he keeps moving forward.

“We’re almost there,” he says. As if on cue, the path curves. He grabs James’s arm and pulls him into a jog, twigs crunching underneath their feet as they run. Around them, the trees begin to part, giving way to tall weeds and low bushes until finally, they stop next to a pond. Keith doesn’t let go of his hand.

The rhythm is louder than before. Keith notices him listening.

“They’re frogs,” he says. “Dad and I used to come up this way all the time to listen to them.” 

James closes his eyes and feels the anxiety from earlier fleeing his chest, feels at home in a way he hasn’t in over a year. But he also feels vulnerable, exposed. Yet this time, it’s not scary, not like when they first saw each other. He wonders what it means. 

And then Keith squeezes his hand, and his heart starts thrumming louder than ever _._

He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. Takes Keith’s other hand, turns him toward him. Squeezes back and leans in. 

Swears he hears the sound of a deer galloping in the distance. 


End file.
